Black Water

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

They stood on the porch of Sonny Charles's last known address, a neat townhouse in Costa Mesa, over by the fairgrounds.

"I've never heard of Sonny Charles," said Ruth Greider. She was red-haired, mid-fifties, stocky. "I bought this home from a very nice couple."

Merci explained in humorless terms how important it was to find a man who had once lived here. She implied that lives might be at stake. "Were the couple eastern Europeans?" she asked.

"Russian. The Selatsins-Jerry and Mary."

One hour later they sat in the cool living room of the Huntington Beach home of Mr. and Mrs. Vsevolod "Jerry" Selatsin, who admitted to buying the Costa Mesa town house from Sonny Charles in March of 1999 and selling it to Ruth Greider eight months ago.

"It's in good condition when we buy," said Jerry. "And good condition when we sell." He was thick-boned and white-haired, with a strong neck and jolly blue eyes that looked like they could change weather in a heartbeat. Sixty. His wife, whom he introduced as Marina, was slender and svelte, with a pale face and dark eyes. Half of Jerry's age. Her smile was sad.

"We need to talk to Mr. Charles," said Merci. "Do you know where we can find him?"

"We don't know Mr. Charles. We just buy his house," said Jerry.

Marina's already dark features darkened more as she sank back into a leather chair. She moved loosely, like a cat or a weasel, Merci thought.

"You had never met him before you bought his home?"

"No."

"Ever hear about him, Mr. Selatsin?"

Jerry Selatsin rolled his strong shoulders and then his pale blue eyes. "You know, everyone knew about Mr. Charles. He made the big money with the homosexuals in Laguna. All legal."

"How did you hear about Mr. Charles's town house being for sale?"

Jerry nodded and Marina sank still further into her chair. "Friend of mine, they know Sonny. They put us together for the sale."

"Who? I need their names. I need to see them, quickly."

Marina Selatsin rattled off a sentence that Merci assumed was Russian. It sounded spiteful and confessional at the same time. She thought she recognized something in it.

"Zlatan Vorapin?" Merci asked. "AI Apin?"

Jerry iced his wife with a stare, then tried to soften it as he turns to Merci.

"Mr. Al Apin was the one. He was always coming to my office, do American taxes and IRS for recent immigrants, they don't understand the complexity of the system. He have work for me. He works in immigration, helps people come to U.S. We talk about Moscow. I need a house."

"He set you up with Sonny."

Marina shifted in the seat and lit a cigarette. She coughed quietly Merci felt the waves of anger coming off her, tried to figure the rough outline of why.

Because Apin set Marina up in the States, too, Merci thought. And she worked off the debt like the other young women did. Until she found her husband, questionably a move up.

Jerry's hearty eyes had gone downward now and Merci saw the tension lines cross his forehead.

"And you bought the Costa Mesa town house for a very, very low price, because Sonny had taken it from a dying man for about half what it was worth."

"This is true. And legal."

"Where's Apin?"

"I don't know. I never know. He is here. He is gone."

Marina curled up into the chair like a cat, bringing her legs under her.

"He is a fucking criminal, like Sonny Charles," she said, not much more than a whisper. "Criminals in Vladivostok and criminals here, the same. Tell him about the Bar Czar, Vsevolod. Or I will."

Big Jerry Selatsin shrugged and looked from his seething wife to Merci, to Zamorra. "Bar Czar, a joke on America that has czar for this and czar for that. On a Lincoln Street up in Anaheim. Little place. Russians, Russians and Russians."

"Al?'

"Maybe, maybe not. You don't tell him I say hello. You don't tell him Marina talk about him. She would like to forget about him. I want to remain alive. Correct?"

Vic Elbe, who owned and managed the Bar Czar, was a short, slight man with a bald tanned head and green eyes. He wore jeans and a broadly striped shirt like a country singer, a tremendous belt buckle in the shape of a bear.

He said he had not seen Al Apin or Sonny Charles in years, though Merci suspected he had. He said he'd call her immediately if he saw them, though Merci knew he wouldn't. He suggested they try the Hot Zone strip club in Santa Ana because everyone knows Al likes the girls.

The Hot Zone was in a nondescript industrial park near the 55 Freeway. It was owned by Johnny Reno, a dapper young man with a scar that ran from the side of his forehead to the bottom of his ear. Renono relation to Janet, he said-told them that he hadn't seen Al Apin since the last time he threw him out of the Hot Zone for trying to muscle in with his own talent. Real funny of Vic, he said, to send them over here, Apin had told Reno that he had European girls who could dance, beautiful girls, blondes, not the dark ethnic stuff you usually found Southern California. Reno had told Apin that he and his custom liked the dark ethnic women usually found in Southern California and threw Apin out. That was the last he'd heard of him. They kept a list by the door, said Reno, of guys the bouncers won't let in. Apin was number one.

"How do you throw out a guy who's six-ten, three-fifty?" Merci asked him.

"He put three of my bouncers in the hospital. After that, we just called you guys. He didn't want to talk to the cops."

"Where can we find him? And don't say talk to Vic Elbe."

Reno smiled, the big scar shifting back a little on his head. "Sergeant, if I knew where to find AI Apin I'd tent the place and fumigate it."

"That's exactly what we'd like to do."

Smiling still, shaking his head: "I heard he's got four girls and a lock on the Camino Newport Hotel. The girls are getting five hundred for a quick half and half, three or four times each on a good night. Figure that math. I wouldn't look for him in the lounge, but you might draw a girl. Sergeant Zamorra might, I mean. I'm not sure-that only what I heard. I don't keep up with that stuff. I run a clean place and you can ask any of my dancers."

"Yeah," said Merci. "If it gets any cleaner they'll want to do Brownie tours."

She could tell by his perplexed smile that he had no idea what she was talking about.

They were on the way to the Camino Newport when Merci's phone rang. It was Grant Nolan, owner of Pace Charters and the helicopter that had flown Wildcraft over the cemetery, returning Rayborn's call.

When she explained what had happened and what she needed, Grant Nolan went silent, then asked her to hold for just a moment.

He was back a minute later. He sighed. "Yes, we chartered the flight to Larry Gray of Laguna Hills. One hour at five hundred and sixty dollars for a birthday party surprise. He paid in cash and we took him up. The pilot wasn't that happy about buzzing a funeral."

He gave her the information that Wildcraft had used to charter the helo-his own address and number.

"What kind of car was he driving?"

"A late-model Durango."

"Thank you. If he contacts you again, I want you to call me immediately."

She gave him her numbers and punched off.

Zamorra was approached by a young woman exactly fourteen minutes after he sat down in the Camino Newport Hotel bar. The Camino was up at Fashion Island and catered to wealthy tourists. The parking attendants wore tan safari suits with red piping and the concierge could cheerfully exchange into dollars the currencies of twelve prosperous nations at rates only slightly higher than the banks offered.

Merci, who had come in before her partner, loitered at a window table for two. Her cell phone lay on the table in front of her, turned off. She looked out the window and checked her watch often, trying to look like someone losing a tremendously valuable boyfriend.

The woman got out of a black Porsche. She looked mid-twenties and carried a Neiman-Marcus shopping bag. Her figure was excellent in a calf-length black dress. Heels with straps and a handbag that glittered and her honey-blonde hair restrained in a strict French braid. Heavy mouth. Her dark blue earrings caught the light when she looked at Merci, vaporizing her with a glance. She sat one stool apart from the sleek, black-suited Zamorra. A few minutes later she laughed. Merci could hear their voices but not their words. Zamorra smiled and motioned over the barkeep. The woman moved next to him and got what looked like a martini, something clear in a stemmed triangular glass. When the woman's drink was gone she took Zamorra's arm and the handsome couple walked out of the lounge and into the lobby. Merci could see them heading for the elevator, heads tilted toward each other like lovers taking their time on their way to ecstasy. She thought of Mike and the call girl he'd fallen in love with, wondered if they'd ever tilted their heads toward each other like that, then mentally kicked her own ass for wondering it.

Ten minutes later they stepped back out of the elevator. The woman touched Zamorra's cheek, then kissed it lightly, then strode across the lobby. She palmed something to the doorman, who whistled for the valet. Through her window Merci saw the valet pull a set of keys from the box behind his stand, then hustle around a big potted juniper an disappear.

Zamorra sat down.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Perfect in every way. Vorapin runs two women here and two more at the Castaway. They pay him once at one o'clock, then again at nine in the morning. The good news is the payout is at the same place every time-the Bar Czar. The bad news is Vorapin only shows once a week maybe less. The rest of the time they pay who ever he sends to collect. Various associates. Sometimes Sonny, sometimes not. She's never sure who."

Rayborn groaned quietly. The black Porsche rounded the juniper with a dry growl and the valet sprung out.

"We could spend a lot of nights waiting at the Czar," she said.

"That was the best she could do. It cost the department a hundred.

"No wonder she pecked your cheek. Want a baby wipe?"

"Nice woman, actually."

"No phone for her boss? No address, nothing?"

"Vorapin just comes and goes. You weigh three-fifty you get good at hiding."

"Paul, Vorapin's a pro. Selatsin probably tipped him. Elbe definitely did. Reno might have. That girl will. We're not going to surprise these guys. We're getting farther away, not closer."

"We need to light their cuffs on fire."

"You present it to Abelera. I'm not high on his list right now."

As soon as they stepped outside the hotel and Merci turned he phone back on, Ike Sumich called. He'd found a Russian-language catalogue, published in New York and nationally distributed, that featured a big-and-tall section and offered Foot Rite products for sale He'd found two big-and-tall catalogues that specialized in upper-end business attire, also distributed in California, also selling Foot Rite. He'd found a military surplus catalogue specializing in Soviet products and memorabilia that occasionally offered discontinued or closed-out goods from mainstream manufacturers. This catalogue-Dinky Dur-kee's Surplus-had offered the Foot Rite Comfort Strider in "extra, extra-extra and extra-extra-extra large sizes" in their January, February and March issues of this year.

Rayborn knew she couldn't subpoena the catalogue retailers without a search warrant on Vorapin. She knew the catalogue retailers would be extremely reluctant to part with any subscriber or sales information. Occasionally, they would confirm a name. Very occasionally, a shipping address.

"Call them all back," she said. "Ask them for a customer list for Orange County if they have it. For the whole state of California, if they don't have it broken down to county."

"They'll say no."

"I know. You're just softening them up for me."

"Ike, the picador."

"Right. Then I sweep down upon them with my incredible charm and they cave."

"Hmm."

She thanked Sumich and punched off.

An hour later they were making their case to Abelera and Brenkus. It was five o'clock and the shifts were changing downstairs. Merci looked down from the sheriff's fourth-floor office at the county streets, thick with traffic. There were so many people in the county now it could take you hours to commute from one end of it to the other. She remembered Clark telling her that in the early part of his career he made the drive from south Orange County to Los Angeles in forty-five minutes.

Zamorra outlined the evidence for suspicion and Merci could see Abelera nudge the bait, but not take it. Brenkus was a tougher read.

"Bring them in here and talk to them," said Abelera. "That can't hurt."

"We'd like to," said Zamorra. "But it might take weeks to find them. They're way underground. That's where they live. By now they know we're asking questions. What we need to do is splash their fact everywhere, get the public helping. Smoke them out."

The sheriff stared at Zamorra, still uncertain.

"The timing is good," said Zamorra. "The public cares about Gwen Wildcraft. People are talking about Archie after the shotgun thing and the press conference yesterday. Tonight's news is going to have the funeral stunt with the flowers. What people are going to be thinking is, this crazy deputy couldn't have shot his own wife. He loves her too much. So now's the time, drop the bomb that we need to question two possible witnesses to the Gwen Wildcraft murder. Use the FBI file photos. Go big with it. Conduct the press conference yourself, sir. Really let people know we need the Russians. The citizens out there will help us. They're worked up about this. That, or we stake out the Bar Czar for the next month and wait. Maybe longer."

Merci said nothing, but she watched Abelera consider. She could see relief stirring behind his face, as the idea of an innocent deputy sank in.

"And there may be another benefit," said Zamorra. "If Archie thinks the temperature's down, maybe he'll come to us. We can get him to the hospital, we can question him again about that night. If he' strong enough, and willing, we can hypnotize him and find out everything he saw and heard. To hear Stebbins tell it, it's that easy to unlock his traumatic amnesia. It's done all the time."

Brenkus sat back, laced his fingers over his neat gut. "Paul, Merci do you honestly think these guys framed Archie?"

"I do," said Merci.

"I think there's a damned good chance they did," said Zamorra.

"Why frame a guy and then kill him, or try to kill him?"

"To cover their own butts," said Rayborn. "But I don't think they planned it. The opportunity just presented itself and they took it. When Archie went down, Vorapin saw the chance to make the thing look like a murder-suicide. He grabbed Archie's gun and went to work. When they were done with Gwen they wiped their damned glove off on Archie's robe, put his hand on the gun while he bled on the walkway, pulled the trigger using his finger. Messy, but simple."

Brenkus raised his eyebrows, a man skeptical but optimistic. "I'd love prosecuting two Russian gangsters rather than one Orange County deputy. Talk to the Russians. I don't have a problem with that, especially if it gets Wildcraft back to us." Brenkus looked over at Abelera. "And I'll make a cameo at your press conference if you want, Vince."

"Maybe Ryan would like to do it," said Merci.

She sat at her desk and looked through Ike Sumich's handwritten notes on the catalogue companies. All had refused his request for Orange County addresses of their subscribers. Two had asked to speak to his superior, indicating they might cooperate with someone more important than CSI Ike Sumich.

She called them back and made her case-not for an entire county's worth of subscribers, but for the confirmation of just one name: Al Apin.

One of the executive big-and-tall catalogues refused again, referring Merci to a lawyer.

The other agreed to look up this one name, but no Al Apin appeared on their customer lists for the last two years.

The offices for the Russian-language catalogue out of New York were closed.

Gail Durkee, the sales manager for Dinky Durkee's Surplus out of Portland, Oregon, pleasantly refused to search her database for the name.

"It would be a huge help to me if you would, Ms. Durkee."

"I'm so sorry, Detective. But I can't do it. It's against our policy. Dinky-I mean Ernie-would kill me."

"I understand, Ms. Durkee, but, please, let me tell you just a little something about this case."

Rayborn hated to play the gender card, but she played it anyway. She explained that a young wife had been murdered in very cold blood, a girl who'd married her high school sweetheart-a law enforcement officer in good standing with her department-and together they'd struggled to make a good life. Merci even explained that it looked like this young woman had gotten involved with organized gangsters who took over a company she was working for. When this woman resisted their corruption, she was murdered in her own home, and her loving husband was shot and left for dead.

Zamorra offered Merci a small smile.

"Oh, the lady with the funny last name?" Durkee asked. "Wildman or Wildflower or something like that?"

"In strictest confidence, Gail-yes. Gwen Wildcraft."

"We've had the story up here. I thought the husband was the suspect."

"Not anymore. The name we need is Apin. Al Apin."

She spelled it. A silence then, and Merci heard the tapping of a keyboard.

"Sergeant, can I call you back in exactly five minutes?"

"Please don't disappoint me, Ms. Durkee. I need your help."

"Five minutes."

Rayborn hung up, predisappointed because she knew Gail Durkee was not going to call. She sat back and thought about Archie Wildcraft dumping pounds of flowers over his wife's grave site while friends scattered and flummoxed deputies drew their weapons on him. She wondered what it would look like on CNB.

Pounds of flowers.

She thought of something then, and went over to Teague's desk to use his phone. From her blue notebook she got the number of Archie's gardener, Jesus, who had looked at her so forlornly when she asked him to go with God.

When he answered she identified herself, then told Jesus that it was his duty to tell her what number Archie had given him to call regarding the flowers.

"Flowers?"

"The flowers he wanted you to collect. You know the ones I mean, Jesus-he asked you to get a whole bunch of flowers. Just the blossoms and blooms, not the whole stem."

"He no want me to say nothing."

"You can say something to me, Jesus. It's important. Where was he? How were you supposed to contact him when you had the flowers?"

The phone on Rayborn's desk started ringing. Zamorra moved to answer it but she waved him off. "Jesus? I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You're going to go get that address and phone number, and you're going to hold that telephone to your ear until I come back. Is this clear?"

"Yes, is clear."

"Can you do it?"

"Yes, okay."

She punched the hold button and got to her own desk on the fourth ring.

"Sergeant, this is Gail at Dinky's? We sold a pair of Foot Rite Comfort Striders to an Al Apin of Fullerton last March. I've got the shipping address and a phone."

"Shoot."

She was half astonished to find Jesus still waiting. Jesus gave her an address in Irvine and a phone number.

"He is in a room two… seventeen."

"Thank you, Jesus, vaya con Dios."

"Vaya con Dios, police woman."

She pulled her blazer off the back of her chair and slung it over her shoulder. "I just got addresses for Archie and Vorapin."

Archie's address was for La Quinta Inn, right off the interstate. It looked to Merci like an old agricultural or industrial building of some kind, or maybe just made up to look like one. She drove around and tried to spot room 217 from the parking lot but the doors were all inside. No Durango.

She parked in a corner of the lot and followed Zamorra inside. She glanced at the display of some old piece of canning or packing machinery, scanned the sign that told about it, watched the family that burst suddenly from the elevator. There was a bawling boy with tears jetting from his eyes, a woman loaded with baggage scolding a man loaded with luggage, who also pushed a stroller containing a shrieking baby. Zamorra leaned in, holding open the door for them.

When the elevator was finally empty he picked something off the floor and gave it to Merci: a small white flower with a yellow center. She looked at him and said nothing.

The maid's cart was parked outside the open front door. A short stocky woman ran a loud vacuum cleaner and Merci looked in at the made bed, the paper-wrapped water glasses on the counter, the drawn drapes. She opened the trash can on the cart and saw the most recent load: wads of tissues, some faintly pinked by blood, and a collection of now-wilting flowers. No stems or stalks, just flowers and loose petals. She reached in and pulled out a long scrap of blue tarp. It was almost a yard long and roughly a foot wide. One side was cut straight, the other curved. One end was squared, the other rounded graceful like the tip of a sword. She had no idea what it was for so she dropped it back in the trash can, then unhinged the liner bag, knotted it and slung it over her shoulder.

She nodded at the maid as if she was obeying orders from the woman. She cursed Jesus for tipping off his boss that she had called. On her way to the lobby her temper ebbed as she realized that Jesus might just be innocent and that Archie might just be luckier-or more clever-than she had thought.

At the desk Zamorra badged the manager and found out that Jim Green had paid cash for room 217 for three nights, but only stayed two. He had checked out at four, just a few hours ago. The manager said that Mr. Green wore a baseball cap and sunglasses and did not make conversation. Mr. Green loaded several large framed pictures of a beautiful women into his Durango. Not provocative pictures, nothing obscene, more like portraits. They may even have been of the same woman. He had also loaded some fairly long, flat objects that were covered with what looked like old bed sheets. Roughly, he said, the objects were the shape and size of surfboards, but appeared to be very lightweight. He had loaded several rocks that sat on stands. Earlier today-in the morning, around ten-Mr. Green had talked with a Mexican-looking man who drove a small pickup truck with gunnysack full of something in the back. It was a gardener's truck, with rakes and hoes upright in holders on the side of the bed. They had loaded the gunnysacks into Mr. Green's Durango and he had driven off, wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses.

Merci read the registration card. Wildcraft had used his real address and phone number, changing only his name. She pocketed the card then grabbed the knotted trash bag and headed for her Impala, leaving her partner to thank the manager.

They called for backup on Vorapin. The four uniforms met them on Imperial Highway behind a convenience store, where Zamorra briefed them. One of the deputies would carry the twelve-gauge riot gun from his cruiser, one other a Taser, and the remaining two were instructed to have their pepper spray in hand and ready. The youngest deputy told Sergeant Rayborn that the newly issued spray was "incredibly effective."

On the drive through the Fullerton hills Merci unsnapped the thumb brake on her Bianchi. She thought of a man she'd killed and the bullet hole he'd put in her. She felt the taut pull of the scar on her side as she leaned forward to make sure her little, 40-caliber ankle cannon was snug against her left leg. She sat back and banished these memories. She refused to be haunted by what she had done. Killing another human alters the soul, though, and Rayborn knew this.

It was a little after seven. She looked out at the big houses, the circular driveways filled with shiny new cars, the old palms that towered and drooped like they'd seen it all before. They passed a Florentine palazzo, a small Norman castle and a Greek temple.

"Left side," said Zamorra. "The ranch house under the big pine."

They passed it. It was large and rambling, with dark windows recessed under the deep overhang of roof. The shingles were warped and lifting. In front was an enormous Norfolk Island pine going dry in the August heat. The driveway was cracked and littered with browned needles and led to a garage almost invisible from the road. The place had an air of neglected nobility that made Rayborn uneasy. The bullet scar on her side was still tight and throbbing, like a patch put on tight. Why now?

Zamorra made a left on the next side street, then a U-turn, then right, heading back the way they'd come. He parked along the two doors short of Vorapin's address. As arranged, the two patrol cars came by a few minutes later and took their time ambling into position, one unit in front of the unmarked, and one across the street facing other direction.

Rayborn sent one deputy around the left side of the house, and around the right. Then she walked up the drive, with Zamorra two steps behind and to her left, and Taser and Twelve Gauge behind him. She stepped up to the porch, and as her hand went to the grip nine she registered: cobwebs in the eaves and dust on the side windows and cracks in the plaster and most of the shrubs dying.

She rang the doorbell, heard the muted chime from inside, wait, then she rang again. And again.

Merci was about to turn away when the door opened and a woman in a tight green dress looked at her. Thirty-something, auburn hair pinned up, eyes the shineless green of cash.

"No," the woman said.

"No what?" asked Merci.

"To whatever you want."

The woman moved to close the door and Merci straight-armed the wood. "I'm Sergeant Rayborn, County Sheriff's. We're looking for Zlatan Vorapin, also known as Al Apin."

Rayborn got her duty boot between the door and the floorboard, swung back her coat to show the badge and the nine. Money-eyes looked impressed. There was a hallway behind her.

"Open this door and invite us in, lady," she said. "Get Vorapin. This is about a murder and you do not want to make me angry right now."

Rayborn looked past the woman's shoulders, ready for movement. The hallway opened to a living room.

"He is not here." Her voice was strong and thick with accent, but of which language Rayborn had no way of knowing.

"Then you don't mind if we look around, is that what you're saying? That's okay, sure, we'll come in if you say we can, just swing that door open for me…"

"He is only here not very often."

"My name's Merci. What's yours?"

"Irene."

"Irene, just let me in, will you, dear?"

"I am leaving."

"I won't make you late. Just give us a few minutes."

Irene turned away and Merci wasted not one second, pressing in ahead of Zamorra, then turning to wave in Taser and Twelve Gauge. She kept her palm on the Pachmayr grip of the H amp;K as she followed Irene into the living room.

A lamp turned low, weak light, gray leather sofa and love seat, a glass coffee table. Zamorra moved into the kitchen. Irene watched the big-armed deputies jangle down a long hallway toward the bedrooms.

"You work for him?" asked Merci.

Irene shook her head quickly. "Yes and no."

"You help out."

"I help out."

"Are you his girlfriend?"

"This is not a word I use."

"Where is he?"

"Zlatan never tells. He comes when he comes. This house is one he bought for me. There are others. I don't know them and I don't want to know them."

"Do you make his pickups at the Bar Czar at one and nine?"

"Only sometimes."

"Tonight?"

"I am not told until."

Merci flipped on a wall switch and the overhead track lighting came on. She could see that Irene was probably late thirties. Her makeup was half finished, her eyes tired. One pearl earring. Irene looked at her, then away.

"Where can we find him?"

"Always moving."

"Where does he sleep?"

"I don't know. This is the truth. Sometimes here but not often, time each week, perhaps."

"And you don't know one single other place he might lay down for the night?"

"I do not."

"Or one single other place he does business, collects money, hangs out and drinks with his friends?"

"Bar Czar."

"When?"

"Impossible. I am not often there."

"What about Cherbrenko?"

"I have met him and seen him with Zlatan. Partners in business

"Show me his room."

Without a word Irene led her down the hallway to the end, opened a door and flicked on a light. Merci followed down two steps that led to a big bedroom. There was a gaudy brass bed with black sheets and covers, a gold ice bucket on a stand by one side, a huge television rising from beyond the foot of the bed stand. The room smelled of cologne and BO and cigarette smoke.

"Does he have an office here in the house?"

"Yes. This way."

She led Merci through the bedroom, past a huge master bath with a red-tile shower and whirlpool, toilet and bidet, all with gold fixtures.

"He's got horrible taste," said Merci.

Irene shrugged.

"Why don't you quit?"

"He knows where to find my daughter."

"Maybe I'll arrest him for murder, get him out of your hair."

Irene looked at her, the planes of her face weighted by fear. 'He’s everywhere. You must arrest them all."

"I'd like to."

They went through French doors and into a faintly lit back room paneled in dark wood, with a cluttered desk along one wall, a black leather sofa pushed against another. A big TV dominated a corner, viewable from sofa or desk. Irene turned on the lights and a ceiling fan began to turn. More smoke and cologne.

"What's he watch on all these big screens?"

"Shopping channels and pornography."

"Does he make his own movies?"

Irene actually colored. "No. They show amputated people and violence."

"Irene, are you going to tell me where to find this guy?"

"I can not."

"You can call me as soon as you know where he'll be."

"I should risk my child for you?"

"He'd never know."

"He will know, Sergeant. I am not a foolish girl anymore. Please do not behave that way to me."

Merci walked around the desk and stood by the chair. The seat was adjusted so high it came almost to her hips. The desk legs rested on cinder blocks, apparently spray-painted gold. On the desktop was a clean blotter, a small Russian flag upright in a holder, a notepad, an ashtray filled with butts, a calendar with August's model reclining invitingly in the back of a black stretch limousine. The promotional header above the photograph was of a neon car swooping through the sky. The name of the company was in hot blue text: Air Glide Limousines.

"Air Glide," said Merci.

"Friends of his," said Irene.

"No wonder they told me they didn't have any giants for drivers."

"No one talks about Zlatan. You must understand."

"Understand what?"

Irene stared at her and Merci stared back. "How he is without restraint."

"I'm beginning to."

"Then get out, please."

Serve and protect, thought Rayborn.

She pulled at the center desk drawer but it caught against its lock. The side drawers were locked also.

"Give me the key," she said. Irene sighed, then moved to the door and reached above the frame, She brought it to Rayborn, dropped it onto the blotter.

Top drawer: pencils, pens, a notepad promoting a company called NexLess. Merci held the pad to the light, saw no imprints on the top sheet but stripped it off and put it in her pocket anyway. There was a magnifying glass with a nice wooden handle. Matches, rubber band, paper clips. A key chain with a clear acrylic disk that said

OrganiVen.

"What did he say about Gwen Wildcraft?"

"Nothing."

"Archie Wildcraft."

"Nothing. I read the papers about them."

"Don't tell me he never said anything about OrganiVen."

"He did not. Why would he talk business with me?"

"Except the girls."

Merci looked at her, tried to figure the bend of Irene's psyche that accommodated Zlatan Vorapin in whatever way she did. Came up with nothing but fear. Confirmed by the flatness of Irene's green eyes she stared through her.

"He was here. The man with the bullet in his head."

Rayborn felt her pulse jump, then the cool fingers of adrenal moving through her. "When?"

"Afternoon today. He waited across the street in a sports utilitycar. I watched from a window. When he took off his hat and looked at head in the mirror, I knew it was him. From television."

Irene shook her head, looked at her watch and brought her hand to the ear without the pearl. "I must finish and go."

"Thank you. Just so you know, Vorapin put that bullet in the man’s head. Murdered his wife in her own bathroom, shot her once in heart and once in the brain."

She offered Irene a card and the woman backed away.

"That would be foolish."

"Yes, it would. You'll remember my name. The operator will give you the department number."

"I've done too much for you. You can do nothing good for me. Go and never say to Zlatan that we talked."

Rayborn pocketed her card and turned to find Zamorra and the two uniforms examining the shower in Vorapin's bathroom. Twelve Gauge pointed at the gold nozzle, situated a full foot higher than the standard. Merci joined them, disturbed by the height of the thing.

"He's got some newspapers in his laundry room," said Zamorra. "Just certain sections, not the whole paper. They go back a week, and every one of them has something about Archie or Gwen in it."

"OrganiVen stuff in his desk," said Merci. She looked at Irene, who stared through a window like she wanted to fly out of it.

On the way down the hall Merci stopped and glanced into one of the bedrooms. There was a makeup table set up along one wall, with a lighted mirror and a chair in front of it. The chair was pushed back. A cigarette had burned down in the ashtray and the dead ash snaked from the filter down into the glass. A pearl earring sat next to a large tumbler of something clear over ice.

By the time they got back to headquarters, Zamorra had called Sheriff Abelera at home and talked him into authorizing twelve-hour after-dark undercover surveillance on the Bar Czar, Air Glide Limousine, Vorapin's home in the Fullerton hills and Archie Wildcraft's million-five spread in Hunter Ranch.

"I know, sir. I understand. Thank you."

When Zamorra punched off Merci asked him what the sheriff had said.

"He said he was holding a press conference tomorrow at noon. He's going to do the talking himself. We'll have a dedicated line for information and people to answer it twenty-four/seven. I can tell he's not convinced on the Russians, but he wants to be. The last thing he wants is Archie guilty. But he's got to act like he wants Archie guilty so he doesn't look like he's covering his own. Like Brighton did. He's got the Deputy Association pulling him one way, that prick Dawes leaking our evidence to the media, guys like Gary Brice making entertainment out of it."

Merci said nothing, just looked out the window at the darkened county, the taillights, the signs flipping past overhead.

"I wouldn't want his job," said Zamorra.

"Neither would I."

A lie, but she'd never told him of her plan. It wasn't something you could tell someone without sounding crudely ambitious. But that was the old plan anyhow. It went exactly like this: head of Homicide Detail by age forty; head of the Crimes Against Persons Section by age fifty; elected sheriff by fifty-eight. There had been a time when she believed it was possible. It was the plan of her life.

"You'd make a good sheriff," said Zamorra. "But you'd have polish your press conference performances."

"Man, would I."

"You've thought about that, haven't you-the job?"

"I used to."

"Don't stop. Things change. Then they change again. That's what you told me when Janine died, and you were right." She looked out at the county buildings along Flower Street, solid in the fading light. Funny, she thought, how she used to believe that her ninety-two percent conviction rate on homicide cases would pave her way to the office of the sheriff. Simple cause and effect. Girlhood dreams. She felt so much older now. But more real, more keenly attuned to the signals of all that can go wrong.